


The Edge of a Precipice

by courie969



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood, Broken Dean, Cutting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 04:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9960524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courie969/pseuds/courie969
Summary: When comforting thoughts aren't, and the voices inside your head are too much, you reach the edge of a precipice.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the FWCG Color Challenge
> 
> Extra special thanks to Christine for reading this and picking it apart for me, it's much appreciated!!
> 
> Warnings for a topic that could be very, very triggery to some people.

 

Dean wakes with a start, gasping for breath, his heart pounding, and his ears ringing with screams from his hellish nightmare. He kicks his legs out from the all too confining sheets and bumps into his bed partner. He shifts slightly in his sleep, tufts of unruly dark hair poking out from under the blanket Cas clutches close to his chin.

He glances at the clock on Cas' side of the bed, the bright red numbers illuminating the shitty motel room and blinking 3:47, and studies Cas' face for a moment – the former angel's brows furrowed slightly in his sleep, dreaming for the first time, Dean supposes.

Still coming down from the nightmares, his ears ringing, a voice in the back of his head screams “Your fault!” at him. Panic bubbles up in his chest as he watches Cas sleep. The voice in his head sounds suspiciously like his long-dead father as it chants a litany of “worthless” and “disappointment” and perhaps the most truthful one of all, “everyone you love dies.” It's as if the voice in his head knows what he refuses to admit to himself, and since that voice refuses to be silenced, he allows these words to sink in and remind him that he loves the man sleeping next to him. What should have been a comforting thought isn’t. His mind twists the love and fills with feelings of guilt, reminding him that the angel is, in fact, no longer an angel, which anyone would tell you is his fault. Cas was human, and humans die. And he loves Cas, and everyone around him that he has ever loved has died. 

Like a fucked up Jenga tower, he stacks these pieces in his mind, all his wrongdoings and faults and misgivings. Something comes along—that voice he supposes—and knocks them all down with a violent fist, shattering the illusion of “It's okay” that he normally keeps. He scrambles out of bed and all but runs into the bathroom, the odd red hue from the exit sign above the motel door giving off enough light to illuminate his path.

Flicking on the light and pushing the door closed just enough not to wake up Cas, he braces against the sink. Dean leans forward to study his reflection in the dingy mirror and peers at himself closely, noting the wild, bloodshot eyes. He runs a hand through his hair and sets the other on the edge of the sink, hissing in pain as he realizes he’s cut his palm on the razor Cas used the night before, the plastic now broken. Because Cas is no longer an angel, he reminds himself. He focuses on the crimson droplets welling up on his skin, and that voice is back, reminding him again that it's his fault. He presses his thumb against the cut and sucks in a breath at the soothing feeling the sharp pain brings, the tightness in his chest abating if only for a second. When he releases, the tightness is back, the voice cackling at him.

He staggers a bit, bumping into the wall opposite of the basin and sinks to the floor, knees to chest, breathing hard, his heated skin cooled on the cold, white tile. Realizing he still has the broken blade in his hand he stares for a moment, unblinking and mouth agape. As if making an unconscious decision, egged on by the voice in his head, he drags the razor across his skin, lightly at first, and watches a thin red line appear across the flesh of his wrist. The cackling voice stops if only for a moment and when it starts again he drags the metal across once more. He presses hard enough to break skin, and the sharpness of it silences the whispers. He does it again and again, the taunting voice easing, and the tightness in his chest loosens. He focuses on metal against flesh and the delicious silence of his mind. He smacks his head back against the wall, his eyes closing and welling up with tears from another kind of pain. He sucks in a breath, the cold air filling his lungs.

Dean opens his eyes as he feels slender fingers wrap around his wrist and fingers prying his own apart, removing the blade. He shudders as a thumb swipe across his wrist and forearm and startles as he looks down to see the damage he's caused. His breath shallow, he follows Cas' fingers as they trace across the cuts, some deeper than others. He watches as crimson drops fall onto the white tiles, seeing them for the first time.

Wrenching his hand away from Cas' grip, he goes to move, but Cas stops him and places red tinged fingers on his cheek, cupping his jaw. He feels the sticky cruor left behind from Cas' thumb, and he frowns, averting his eyes from Cas’ intense gaze, but still Cas presses on, holding his jaw in place. Cas rests his forehead against Dean's and sighs softly.

“You should have woke me,” Cas' rough, sleepy voice says, and Dean makes a noncommittal noise.

When Cas rises to his feet and holds his hand out, Dean takes it and allows himself to be pulled up. And when Cas turns on the faucet, Dean lets him trickle water over his wounds with gentle fingers until they're clean.

He stays silent as Cas flips off the bathroom light, and follows Cas back into the bedroom. When they climb back into bed, Cas pulls him close and studies his face, the odd red light of the room casting shadows over their features. Burying his head against Cas' chest, Dean feels Cas' fingers stroke through his hair, and Dean sighs softly.

“It's not your fault,” Cas murmurs against his temple, and Dean takes small comfort in the lips pressed there, just like he has done so many times before.


End file.
